


Phantom Trigger

by manic_intent



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, John is the hitman sent to stop him, M/M, That AU where Santino is a spy and is trying to trace bits of a thermonuclear device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 10:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Someone tried to kill Santino in the middle of the day while he was out soaking in some sun near Fifth Avenue, which, he told his sister later, was a good sign.“How is it a good sign?” Gianna growled into his ear.Santino glanced around the carriage as it rumbled and jerked through the subway tunnel. He’d lost his pursuer, whoever it was, though he was now short one cup of coffee and down a nice suit. The hunter after him had come close enough to gouge a gash down part of the back of Santino’s jacket. If Santino hadn’t happened to shift quickly to the side to avoid a seeing-eye dog at the time, the knife could have ended up in his back.“Means we’re getting close. Close enough that they’re worried.”Gianna let out a long-suffering sigh, and not for the first time, Santino wished his sister wasn’t the Director of AISE. “That’s a pathetic excuse for logic. Besides, I thought you would have learned subtlety by now.”





	Phantom Trigger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jacytheblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacytheblue/gifts).



> Prompt 3: Spies 
> 
> This one was a tough one… I’m not really familiar with writing spy agencies beyond the usual (MI6, CIA, KGB XD;;). Looks like Italy’s is called AISE, but that’s pretty much all I know and I'm not sure how they operate, so I'm just making it all up as I go.

Someone tried to kill Santino in the middle of the day while he was out soaking in some sun near Fifth Avenue, which, he told his sister later, was a good sign. 

“How is it a good sign?” Gianna growled into his ear. 

Santino glanced around the carriage as it rumbled and jerked through the subway tunnel. He’d lost his pursuer, whoever it was, though he was now short one cup of coffee and down a nice suit. The hunter after him had come close enough to gouge a gash down part of the back of Santino’s jacket. If Santino hadn’t happened to shift quickly to the side to avoid a seeing-eye dog at the time, the knife could have ended up in his back. 

“Means we’re getting close. Close enough that they’re worried.” 

Gianna let out a long-suffering sigh, and not for the first time, Santino wished his sister wasn’t the Director of AISE. “That’s a pathetic excuse for logic. Besides, I thought you would have learned subtlety by now.”

“Shouldn’t you be busy managing the entire division?” Santino said, as snidely as he could. “Too busy to act as the handler for a field operative? This is cronyism, isn’t it?”

“I do what I like.” Gianna’s voice faded for a moment near the end, as though she was briefly setting aside her headset to answer a question. “My baby brother’s first solo operation. How could I miss it.” 

“You’re making me depressed.” On the other hand, it could be worse. His sister could have decided to come along. “I’m in New York, not Syria.”

“New York is dangerous. There’s about 112.6 guns per 100 people in America. Syria’s at 3.9.”

True. “Can I have my usual handler back?” 

“Cassian’s busy. Busy staring over my shoulder like a mother hen.” The Director of Italy’s foreign intelligence service, the notorious and widely feared General Gianna D’Antonio, started to make clucking noises. In the background, there was a deep sigh. 

“You’re bad for his morale.” 

“Really? Cassian, am I bad for morale?”

“No comment, ma’am,” Cassian said faintly from the background. Traitor.

The train was slowing to a stop. Santino got out, easing into the crush. Changing lines had taken him on a long, circular route to his destination, a quieter section of the underpass. He found his target leaning against a grill mesh, plastic sheeting hauled over a shopping trolley of worldly effects, singing off-key next to a black and white dog. 

Santino slowed down. The man looked a little _too_ convincingly like any other hobo. “Are you sure about the tip?” 

“Why?” 

“If I’m just about to exchange a secret handshake with an actual homeless person, this is going to be embarrassing.” 

“Still young enough to care about something as stupid as pride? Ahh. I remember being so young. Young enough to think that working in AISE would give me fame, glory, fast cars, and handsome men. Life is disappointing. Suck it up. Now go talk to the contact.” 

Santino palmed the strange coin that Cassian had given him back at AISE HQ in Rome, dropping it into the beggar’s cup. The beggar glanced at it, then looked sharply up at him with surprisingly calculating eyes. Practiced. Not just a hobo, then. “I’d like an audience with the King,” Santino said, repeating what he’d been told. 

“And who’re you?” 

“Friend of an old friend.” 

The hobo hesitated for a long moment. Then he got slowly to his feet, gesturing. Another beggar stepped out from behind a pillar, approaching with a loping stride. They spoke quietly, and the new guy sat down beside the dog. The coin in the cup disappeared quickly up a filthy sleeve. A service door near the pillar was unlocked, and the hobo beckoned when Santino hesitated. 

This was really not going to end well. 

The service tunnels were dank, and at intersections, had the smoky, stale stench of old piss. Charming. Santino occupied himself by memorising the surprisingly labyrinthine route, which eventually disgorged into the belly of a gutted concrete building, sectioned off by canvas and cardboard into little rooms by squatters. The overcrowded chamber also stank, this time of too many unwashed people crowded into a space. Santino tried not to breathe too deeply as he was hustled past and up a narrow flight of stairs. 

They emerged on a roof. Santino blinked in the warm sun, trying not to gawk. Most of the roof was taken up by ranks of pigeon coops, the birds cooing and preening on perches and within their cages. There was a pervasive musty smell, guano and feathers and worse. Other hobos were scattered around the roof, narrow-eyed and watchful. Armed, judging from the folds of their discoloured clothes. Near the coop was a graying man, portly and grinning. He held a pigeon carefully in his hands, pressed into fingerless gloves, and he set the pigeon into a coop, wiping his hands down his dirty coat. 

“I don’t often get visits from strangers,” the pigeon man said, ambling over. They shook hands. He had a firm grip.

“You’re the ‘King’?” 

“One and only. This side of the world, anyhow.” The King smiled widely. “And you are in a lot of trouble for a stranger.” 

“What do you mean?” Santino asked warily. There was a fire escape to the left. If he bolted for it, he could make it to cover—

“No, no, don’t panic. Friend of a friend, hm? I don’t remember being friends with anyone in AISE. Don’t look so shocked. I make it my business to have eyes and ears everywhere.”

Cover blown? Not a good sign. No word from Gianna, though. Santino decided to keep playing along. “Cassian said to remember the Hudson.” 

“Ah. I see now. And how is Cassian?” 

In his ear, his sister was still silent. Cassian cleared his throat in the background. “Tell him I’m married. Expecting a kid.” 

Divulging personal details? Was the Bowery King a close friend? How did that even happen? Santino tried not to make it look too obvious that he was studying the King more closely. “Fine. Married. Kid on the way.”

“Settled down? _The_ Cassian? Wow. Please forward him my congratulations.” The King looked genuinely pleased. “Though when he left this life he told me he was just going to spend his time fishing. Didn’t think that meant working for AISE.” 

“Shit happens,” Cassian said. Santino decided not to relay the sentiment.

“So what are you here for? If you’re here to kick the hornet’s nest, you’ve done it. The man who’s been set on your tail is a legend in these circles. You should be honoured. And if you haven’t set your mortal affairs in order, you should do that soon as well.” 

Santino scowled. He wasn’t about to get intimidated by a man surrounded by pigeons and pigeon shit. “A week ago there may have been a shipment that was unloaded at a private dock. It would have been a yellow box, lined with lead. Inside, another box, full of what would look like thermos flasks. It was likely processed through the local bratva.” 

“And what was in the thermos flasks?” 

“Materials for a new kind of dirty bomb. New kind of emitter, new semi-synthetic materials. Final product is a very small, compact device. We found traces of it tested in Naples and tracked it to New York.”

The King raised his eyebrows. “Hell of a suspicion. Why don’t you guys just report that to the FBI?” 

“Long story.” 

“And embarrassing?” 

“Maybe,” Santino conceded. There had been certain high-level defections involved, unexpected ones. Gianna had been furious. And besides, the FBI had been surprisingly… unresponsive. Even with its current political troubles. Gianna had suspected a conspiracy. 

“So—no offence—but if it’s a matter of such magnitude, why would AISE send a relatively young agent over to New York by himself?” 

Santino bristled anyway. “I’m capable.” 

“And well-connected, if you happen to get caught?”

“This is one lead of a few.” 

“Given they set the Baba Yaga on you, I’m thinking you lucked into a real solid lead.” The King looked over at the bridge, pursing his lips. “Dirty bomb. Fuck. Y’know. I wasn’t far from here when 9/11 happened. Saw it go down. People jumping. The fire…” He shook himself, as though shedding ugly memories. “So. You want to find this yellow box.” 

Santino nodded. “We can pay. Seven million.” 

The King laughed. “Seven million? Pizza for everyone! With pineapple on top.” 

Santino tried not to scowl. “If that’s what you like.” 

“All right, all right. No need to pull faces. We’ll help.” He nodded at one of his men, who slipped away to the stairs. “I’ll get word to you if we find anything. But in the meantime. You can’t stay here. Not with what you’ve got on your tail. I don’t want that kind of trouble coming down on my people.”

“Fine.” 

“There’s a hotel.” The King rattled off a name. “You should go there. It’s a sanctuary, of sorts.” 

“It’s not my first time being hunted.” 

“Not by someone like this. Good luck. I don’t think we’ll ever meet again.” 

He was taken out of the building through another service tunnel, which eventually emerged into another part of the underground. Gianna patched in. “Cassian’s worried.” 

“That’s an understatement,” Cassian said faintly from the background. “If the Baba Yaga’s after him, well fuck. I’m sorry, Gianna. If he makes it to the Continental, maybe, maybe we might be able to extract him. But I doubt he’d make it.”

“I’ve already gotten away once,” Santino said, annoyed. “And since we’re waiting for information, I think I’ll do some hunting of my own.”

“Good thinking,” Gianna said.

“Not a good idea, ma’am.” 

“Shut up, Cassian. Santino, surely you can handle some bratva hitman.” 

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

There was a long pause. His sister was worried after all. “Don’t be too confident.”

Santino muttered under his breath. Older sisters. “I know what I’m doing.”

#

Someone came close to killing him in a park, the shot chipping bark from a tree beside him. And again closer to the safehouse, though this time it was brick. Santino smiled, studying trajectory, too precise for luck. Whoever the Baba Yaga was, he was probably aiming to miss. Which meant he’d been set on Santino to scare him off.

Well. AISE agents didn’t scare easily. Over the next week, while waiting for news, Santino memorised maps and possible circuits. The Baba Yaga was generally a no-show in public buildings like museums. He hunted in the outdoors and underground. One week in, Santino was fairly sure that he’d caught a glimpse of the hitman, disappearing down an alley. Tall man, dark hair, scruffy beard. Nice suit. 

After a week and a half, Santino grew bored of the game of cat and mouse. If the Baba Yaga was just there to frighten him, then he had work to do, and criminal organisations were just like any other business. Follow the supply, follow the money, and eventually you’d make it to the source. Repurposed cabs was a somewhat ingenious idea. Cabs were everywhere, passing unnoticed. Santino watched the operation through a scope on the roof of a building. Maybe this was how the bratva planned to smuggle the flasks to the buyer.

There was a faint noise behind him. Santino whirled, dropping the scope, pistol drawn. The tall man was there by the roof access. Again with the nice suit. Tailored, but somehow, it didn’t look like it fit, packaging drawn sleekly over a man with a death mask of a face, framed by thin dark hair. His hands were empty, though Santino was sure that he was armed.

“So we meet at last,” Santino said. “The Baba Yaga, was it? If you wanted to get to know me so badly you could have asked. We could have gone for tea.” 

“You should leave New York.” The Baba Yaga’s voice was a harsh rasp, an animal sound drawn reluctantly over human vowels. 

“I have business in New York, sadly. Of concern to your masters, I presume.” The Baba Yaga nodded slightly. “I’m surprised.” Santino smiled thinly. “The bratva are not as ruthless as I thought. Sending someone just to try and scare me. I grew up in Naples, friend. I’m used to a brutal breed of criminal.” 

“Wasn’t given a deadline.” 

Ah. So the bratva _did_ want him dead. Just that the Baba Yaga thought he could play with his prey. Santino braced and fired, but for a tall man, the Baba Yaga could move like a viper. He jerked out of the way of the first shot, then the next, then he was too close, twisting the pistol out of Santino’s grip with an uncommon strength. It became a brawl. Santino threw a punch—deflected—then a feint; he kneed the Baba Yaga in the gut. Man grunted, didn’t double over, his hand closing tight over Santino’s wrist as Santino’s knife flicked into his palm from within his sleeve. 

The world tilted. Santino’s legs had been kicked free from under him. The knife skittered away across concrete. He grabbed a fistful of the Baba Yaga’s tie, hauling him down, wriggling free, trying to get onto his back to strangle him. Who the fuck wore ties to a fight? The Baba Yaga coughed, twisting, an elbow catching Santino in the ribs. Their legs tangled. Before Santino could jerk free, he was pinned on his flank by the Baba Yaga’s weight, arm yanked behind his back. Santino snarled, struggling helplessly. The Baba Yaga adjusted his tie, breathing in.

“Santino?” Gianna, in the earpiece. “What’s happening?” 

The Baba Yaga reached over, plucking out the earpiece, switching it off. “Calm down. Not going to kill you.”

Santino stared up at him. “What?”

“Thought I could scare you off. Before you get yourself killed.”

“I have a job to do,” Santino said, humiliated and annoyed and murderous. “So if you’re bent on wasting my time, let me go. I don’t scare easily.”

“What does an Italian spy want with the bratva?”

“Isn’t it fucking obvious?”

“Tell me.”

What the hell. It wasn’t like he was going to budge anytime soon. And he _was_ at the Baba Yaga’s mercy. With ill grace, Santino related what he had told the King. The Baba Yaga glanced over at the warehouse thoughtfully, then back down at Santino. “Why not just tip off the FBI?” 

“We did,” Santino said sourly. This part he hadn’t told the pigeon King. “Something went wrong. Once we told them we suspected the Tarasovs, our contact there went all neutral on us. Started to ask us about proof. Like they couldn’t get involved, somehow. Even when there’s bits of a fucking miniature thermonuclear device involved.” 

“Another world,” the Baba Yaga said, thoughtful. Carefully, he let Santino go, stepping back as Santino got to his feet. “A few weeks ago the bosses had a visitor. From Russia. They would receive a shipment through the usual lines, to be hidden, then funnelled to different places when instructed.” 

“Why would…” Santino trailed off. “That’s not right. Russia has nothing to gain from that sort of overt attack on this country. You’re both not even at war.” 

“I didn’t say it was their government. I think it was bratva. The mother branch. They’re holding an auction for the pieces. In New York.”

“You’re… being surprisingly helpful.” 

“Seen what shit like that can do.”

“Ex-Army?” The man was silent. “Marine Corps?” A faint nod. “Right. Maybe if you turn yourself in—” He shook his head, already loping for the roof access. “Wait. What’s your name?”

The assassin paused by the door, clearly thinking over whether to answer. “John,” he said finally. Convenient. 

“I’m Santino.”

“I know who you are. Get out of New York.” 

“Why did you decide not to kill me?” 

John glanced at Santino from the door. His eyes lingered on Santino’s face, for a second too long. Then he left, as quietly as he had appeared. 

Santino fit his earpiece back in and turned it on. “Gianna.” 

“Santino! What happened?” She was tense with worry. 

“We have a tip.”

#

Getting lured into a dead end alley by some thugs had been stupid enough, getting knocked out while fighting off an ambush was worse. Waking up in bed in what looked like a luxurious hotel room after all that was disorienting. Santino sat up so sharply that his vision swam. His head throbbed. Someone had dressed the scrapes on his arm, neat and precise, stitched and bandaged the knife gash on his shoulder. Nothing hurt nearly enough. Good painkillers, maybe.

The room was dimly lit from a sliver of warmth from a door left ajar that led to another room. Santino was still wearing his pants and socks, but his gear was nowhere to be seen. He started to get up, and the door was pushed open further. It was John. 

“Did you save my ass or did you come here to finish the job?” Santino asked. “Wherever ‘here’ is.”

“This is the Continental.” 

“The very special safe hotel?” Santino sniffed. “Why doesn’t the bratva operate on these premises?” Superstition? 

“No one operates on these premises,” John corrected. “Mutual agreement between the clans. Your people can pick you up from here.” 

“Sorry,” Santino said, grimacing as he got off the bed. “Work to do.” John moved to block the door. “Get out of my way, _stronzo_.” 

“Next time you’d get shot first instead of beaten.”

“Next time I’ll shoot first instead of trying to give them a beating.” John stared, clearly unconvinced. He stiffened when Santino walked closer, right up close, sliding a palm up his vest, over his shirt to his neck. His eyes widened, going darker. Ah. Lust, now, lust Santino understood. And could use. 

“I think _you’re_ in trouble,” Santino said, leaning closer, grinning. “I think your employers realized you weren’t getting the job done. That’s why they put more people on it. Sooner or later they’re going to notice that you stopped the others from killing me.” 

John was quiet. Santino would have thought him indifferent, if he didn’t hear the faintest hitch of breath when fingertips skated up to John’s jaw. “Maybe you could help me,” Santino said. “There’s a reward for finding that shipment.” No, that hadn’t worked: John was starting to straighten up. 

“I’ve already told you what I know.”

“What you _think_ you know,” Santino corrected. He curled his fingers in the tie, pulling teasingly. “I have other questions. Which you can answer for me when you’re more… comfortable.” 

John didn’t budge, for a moment, then he pulled Santino over instead, leaning down, though not all the way. Santino had to be the one to close in for the kiss, tentative, then hungry. He didn’t care that his head ached, that his ribs throbbed when he rubbed himself lazily against John. John made a low, hoarse sound, and nipped Santino lightly. 

“Knew you were trouble when I saw you,” he said. He sounded resigned.

“You don’t know half of it, friend,” Santino told him, grinning as he pulled John towards the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com


End file.
